


Welcome Addiction

by valkyrienix



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Demonstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyrienix/pseuds/valkyrienix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake English recalls the night his friend Dirk Strider died, but is surprised to find that perhaps he's not so dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> woo based off of a cosplay on tumblr by chocobo-strider and jakes-english-muffin

You slide through the street, the shadows surrounding you and hiding you like a cloak. The hour is midnight, the moon high up in the sky and the few stars visible through the city lights glistening. The street lamps flicker as you pass, but you pay it no mind. There is no one to notice you and no one to stop you tonight.

Tonight you have a mission. Tonight, for the briefest of moments, you are going to return to your mortal life. You are going to return and see the friend that you so dearly loved. Someone you pined after but never had the guts to say anything to.

Jake English.

Your orange eyes flicker, and a smile spreads wide across your face. Yeah, that’s right, Jake, you think, I’m coming to see you.

 

* * *

 

You stand in your kitchen, making yourself a cup of tea. You can’t sleep again. There’s just no damned way. Every time you close your eyes, a nightmare captures your mind. You wake up every night panting, skin sticky with sweat, and the image of Dirk’s orange eyes imprinted on your vision.

He’s been dead a whole year now, and you still are having trouble believing it. You go the the therapist every week, trying to get over the brutal murder, but you just can’t seem to let go. All you see is the blood, the blood covering every inch of his apartment, and the mutilated body that lay on the living room floor. His sword was next to him, broken in two, and his glasses smashed against the back wall.

A shudder wracks you, and you take the kettle off the stove. You take a deep breath, and poor yourself a cup, trying to hold back tears. You miss him. God, do you miss him.

Suddenly there’s a noise from the front porch and you almost drop your cup. Your heart rate speeds up, and you eye the front door suspiciously. A hand slides to your pocket, where you have kept a gun ever since the murder. You set the cup of tea down and slowly make your way to the door, listening.

Nothing.

“Just your imagination, English,” you mutter, sliding your hand out of your pocket. “Don’t be such a loon.”

You turn back to the kitchen, finishing your tea and then heading upstairs to lay in bed fruitlessly. The caffeine would at least take away the ache inside you that you’ve felt since the night Dirk died.

Eventually, you drift off, into a state of being half awake and half asleep. Strange dreams begin to afflict you. Dirk has come into your room, he is climbing on top of you, whispering in your ear with a deep purr, “Long time, no see, English.” He slides his hands under your shirt and up your chest and back down again. He slips your shirt off you, and starts kissing you down your chest.

“What a dream,” you whisper, and he only smiles.

“Best one of your life,” he replies and kisses back upward to your mouth. And when he reaches it, the kiss is harsh and ravaging, hungry and intense. You kiss back and wrap your arms around him. There’s a low chuckle from deep in his throat, and he kisses down your neck, sucking and biting at the skin, and suddenly he’s broken it and there’s blood but you don’t care. All you care about is holding Dirk and keeping him here as he kisses you into oblivion.

But then the dream is over, and your alarm is going off for work. It’s 4:00 a.m. You sit up bolt right, and grab your glasses, putting them on. You are sweaty again but it is for entirely different reasons. Your breath is coming up short, and your body aches. You find that your shirt was tossed to the floor in the middle of the night, and you frown, picking it up and throwing it in the laundry bin. You rub your eyes a few times to get the crusty sand out, and go to the bathroom to take a shower and then brush your teeth.

A glance in the mirror has you backing up against the wall and staring in utter shock. There are bite marks all along your neck, and the remnants of heavy kisses along your chest. You run your hands all over your body and peek out from the bathroom to your adjacent bedroom. There’s blood on the sheets.

You start to hyperventilate and slide down the wall, your head in your hands. The panic is returning. Your mind flies back to the murder and your pulse thunders in your ears as you see Dirk’s body over and over again in a multitude of angles. Your mind flashes to the funeral, closed casket, because the body was too ripped up for public-viewing. Tears begin to stream down your face and you lay down.

“Dirk,” you whisper, your voice choked and cracking under emotion.

“Jake.”

Your heart stops. You wait in agonized silence for something more, your eyes tightly shut. It’s just a memory. His voice is a lifetime away. You won’t hear it again until you’re dead, most likely.

“English.”

“Go away,” you whisper, “Go away.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jake, look at me.” There’s warm hands picking you up and you’re held close to someone’s chest. “Jake.”

“This isn’t real. This is some sick dream. I need to go to therapy more. I need to see Rose. I nee—” You don’t finish your sentence because the memory has pulled your face up to its own and is kissing you. You kiss back because this is a dream, a repressed memory, and you don’t care.

But it’s let go in less than a minute. “Jake. It’s me. I’m back.” He looks at you and you look at him.

“Dirk?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” A wide grin spreads across his face.

“H-how… in what way were you able to… Dirk.” That’s really all you can muster to say at this point.

“Well, see that’s the thing, English. I’m here to talk to you about that.”

You stare. “You’re a ghost. I’m hallucinating. This isn’t real.”

An exasperated sound escapes him. “Jake, come on.”

You shut up.

He leads you to the bed, his pace light and almost elegant. Not the cool swagger that it once was. Gently, he sits you down. “I’m going to cut to the quick and say it straight, okay, English?”

You nod, still in disbelief.

“First of all, yeah it’s me. I’m not dead.”

You nod again.

“Second of all… Well this is gonna sound like bullshit but just bare with me.”

Nod.

“I’m not human anymore.”

Silence.

“Jake?”

A laugh escapes you and you run a hand through your hair. “I’m dreaming. This is some nonsensical dream that reflects what I’m feeling right now, isn’t it? That’s what Rose would say. I really should see her more. Roxy’s rather upset with me for not seeing her sister, but you know, I’ve got to work and make a living, you know?” You start rambling, and stare at your hands. You can’t look at him. Looking at him will mean that you are crazy.

“Jake!”

You jump and look up at him. His voice comes out in a low hiss. In the dim light of the lamps, his orange eyes seem to glow. You stare at him, and you finally speak in a hoarse whisper. “If you’re not human, then what are you?”

“Not a vampire, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not into that Twilight crap.”

“Okay,” you say.

“I’m a demon. That murder was just another demon taking out my full potential.”

“Wha-what?” The memories flood back and you start to panic again.

His hands grip your shoulders. “It’s okay. Stop that. Look, I’m here to make you the same way.”

“What?”

“Yeah, dude. Haven’t you wanted to live forever? Think about it.”

“I become… a demon?”

“Yeah. Simple as that.”

“A damned soul?”

“No. Fuck, that’s a load of bullshit that humans spread around about us. We’re not damned at all. If anything, we’re blessed, and they’re just jealous and gave the word ‘demon’ a bad rep.”

You stare, unseeing, at him. “I don’t believe that. Not after… Not after that.”

“Look, that was just for me, if you’re scared. I won’t let that happen to you, I promise.”

“I don’t want to live forever, though, Strider,” you say quietly, “I want to grow old and die someday.”

“Why? What if after you die there’s nothing out there but blackness? What if there is no God? There is only us. We are the gods here.”

“Dirk, I don’t want this. Just… let me have you back. That’s all I want. You’re back for good, right? No vamoosing and disappearing from me? You’re here?”

His face has turned stone cold, and he pulls his shades from his pocket and puts them on. “I don’t think you understand.”

“I don’t?”

“No.” He pushes you on to your back. “I left my life and came back to this one just for you. I love you, Jake. I need you with me.”

You shake your head. “Dirk, no.”

“It won’t hurt. Much.”

And suddenly he’s kissing you like he was hours ago in your dream. Except it wasn’t a dream was it? You try to push him away but his grip is like iron. He kisses you with a gruffness, sliding his tongue around your mouth like a vengeful general on the warpath. Nothing moves him.

And then the cold starts. You feel like your entire body is icing over. Everything about you is freezing. Something thick is going down your throat. It’s like sludge, and you start to choke. You grip Dirk’s shirt tightly, struggling and kicking, but he holds you firm.

Tears stream from your face as he continues to kiss you and as you continue to freeze and swallow the darkness. You start to get woozy from lack of oxygen and, finally, with great relief, you black out.

 

* * *

You wait for him to wake up. You’re pacing, a glass of human blood in your hands. It sloshes from side to side as you pace, and occasionally you take a sip. It’s for him but your nerves are beginning to wear thin. It’s been hours, and not a sound has come from him. You wonder if you did it right, but you can’t be sure.

A groan comes from Jake and you look over at him with bated breath. He sits up, gripping his head. You note that his nails are like talons. A grin spreads across your face. “English?”

His whole body stiffens, and you watch a wave of panic go through him. “Strider?”

“Right here, man.”

His hand comes up to touch his face, and you observe the wave of emotions that crash across his face with glee. “Wh-what have you done?”

You approach him, slowly, and hold out the glass silently. He looks at it with wide, terrified eyes. “I’m… I’m a monster.” There’s a note of disbelief. Then, in an instant, it’s anger. “And it’s all your fault!” He knocks the glass away from your hand and it shatters on the floor, sending glass and blood flying everywhere. “You ruined me. You ruined me, you heathen scum!” He stands and walks to the bathroom, and then walks back, as if unsure where to go to escape the situation. “I’ll never be the same again.”

You nod.

“Why me? Heavens, Dirk, why me?”

You look at him and smile. “Jake, I’ve made you perfect. You’re immune to any illness. You’re immortal.”

“No!” he says, and then again more loudly. “NO!” He clutches his head, his breathing heavy. “This isn’t right. This isn’t natural. I’m… I’m damned.”

“You’re not fuckin’ damned.”

“Damned.”

“Jake,” you say as calmly as you can, “Look at the blood.”

His eyes reluctantly slide to the large puddle on the floor.

“Taste it.”

He shakes his head vigorously and in a pained whisper says, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

You crouch down beside the puddle and run a finger through it, licking it. “This is you now, Jake. Let it take over.” You taste the blood again, letting the coppery taste envelop you.

He looks down at the puddle, and back up at you, and then down again.

“Maybe… Maybe just one taste.” He kneels down, hands shaking, and runs his fingers through the puddle.

“That’s it, English,” you whisper, “You’re getting it now. You’re getting it.”


End file.
